


this is me trying (at least i'm trying)

by goldenfences



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2015 One Direction, Angst, Arguing, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Crying, Depressed Harry, Established Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, HE'S NOT ACTUALLY IN IT THOUGH, Happy Ending, I promise, Larry Stylinson Is Real, Liam Payne & Louis Tomlinson Friendship, Lots of Crying, M/M, Mentioned Simon Cowell, Niall Horan & Harry Styles Friendship, POV Harry Styles, Panic Attacks, Post-Zayn One Direction, Sex, Simon Cowell Being An Asshole, Sort Of, Tattoo symbolism, a lot of metaphors, but not really smut, did i say angst yet?, harry and louis need to work on their relationship, just trust me, like pretty sex if that makes sense, lots and lots of angst, sheffield - Freeform, they just fight sometimes, they really love each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:35:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29336910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenfences/pseuds/goldenfences
Summary: That night, their fight couldn’t boil and crackle and blaze and then die between them, because Louis took it with him.-It's 2015, their lives are changing, and Harry and Louis cling to each other way too hard because it's better than letting go.Loosely based on the song "this is me trying" by Taylor Swift
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 32





	this is me trying (at least i'm trying)

**Author's Note:**

> My first published fic! I was listening to the song and got inspired. I hope you like it!!
> 
> Harry and Louis say some pretty disgusting things to each other and about themselves. These comments are IN NO WAY reflective of my own opinions of them. It hurt to write. I love, respect, and admire them both endlessly. This is just a dramatic story.
> 
> Thank you so much to Em, Soph, Mads, and Ella for helping me edit! I love you all.

Never go to bed angry.

Harry and Louis knew that well. They knew the consequences of not talking (or fucking) it out before tucking in for the night. They knew that going to bed with daggers between you meant waking up with blood on the sheets. They knew that in their relationship, one so full of fiery passion and intense emotion and _so much love_ , anger burned like a wildfire and blazed out of control if ignored. The two of them, together, learned early on that if they neglected a scrape or bruise between them and let it fester, it would cause an infection that affected everyone around them. And as passionate and short-tempered and almost cruel as Harry and Louis could be to each other, they would never intentionally hurt their friends. Leftover anger could destroy everything in its path - Harry and Louis were aware of this, and so were Niall, Liam, and Zayn. So were the fans: they were way too perceptive for their own good, so when the boys were fighting, it became a _thing_ (Harry still occasionally sees “piss off” and “wanker” in fans’ Twitter bios). And it’s hard enough to fight without an audience. So no matter how nasty their arguments got, after five years together, Harry and Louis learned to not carry their baggage with them throughout the day, and they became good at sorting it out before turning off the lights.

But that night, after the worst fight they had ever had by far, they never turned off the lights. That night, they never sorted it out because one second Louis was there, and the next he was gone. Their hotel room door banged against the wall and remained ajar as the tears streamed freely down Harry’s face and into his gaping mouth, as the light shining through the doorway from the hallway cackled at him and the green armchair in the corner cried for him. As Louis’s last words to him bounced off the walls and pierced Harry’s skin like knives. _“Don’t follow me."_ It required every last drop of Harry’s waning energy to shut his mouth and wipe his tears and close the door and try to fall asleep. He didn’t sleep.

That night, their fight couldn’t boil and crackle and blaze and then die between them, because Louis took it with him.

\--

_October 31st, 2015_

Sheffield Arena was exploding with screams, tears, and music. The sheer amount of emotion in the stadium could start a forest fire. Harry, Louis, Liam, and Niall were absolutely buzzing with excitement, and the pure elation coursing through their veins was enough to dilute the sadness for the moment. Harry even got to hug Louis on stage! _It’s_ _absurd_ , he thought as his boyfriend embraced him in front of thousands of screaming fans. _I’ve had this man’s cock in my ass, yet I’m about to throw up from a hug._

Harry’s heart was bursting with love for the boys - his boys - but it was the kind of love that churns and builds for years until it’s too big for your chest and it leaves you aching. All four of them were aching. They were excited, of course, for their solo careers, for new experiences, for some time away from the absolute madness they had been drowning in for five years. They were on a high, buoyant and sparkling from their astronomical success and all the love binding them together and to their fans. But they were also hurting and so, so terrified. What now? They were to be untethered for the first time in five years, the first time since they were teenagers. All that their adult selves had ever known was the band. Nonstop touring and writing and recording and fame and parties and awards and _so much success_ that they didn’t know how to deal with it, so they just basked in it and never thought too much about the future. But the future was now.

Harry was incredibly eager to start his solo career. He loved One Direction with his entire heart and more, but now that it was coming to an end (or a break, at least), he couldn’t ignore the cavity that he had felt and pushed aside for years. There was a small hole inside him in which dwelled all the stories he couldn’t tell, all the ones that he yearned to mold into songs but that were too personal to share with four other people, too close to his heart to risk being altered or marred by their producers and co-writers. Here resided “Don’t Let Me Go,” “Just a Little Bit of Your Heart,” “Half the World Away,” “Two Ghosts,” and more; here resided songs so vulnerable that Harry felt the need to keep them as close to his chest as possible.

Now, however, they had a doorway through which to enter the world. Harry had the opportunity for a new beginning. Some things would stay the same, of course: fame doesn’t disappear when the band leaves the stage. He was still _Harry Styles._ And Louis was still Louis. A constant force in his life. His biggest love, even greater than music. His strongest comfort and greatest inspiration, impregnable and invincible. The sun around which he revolved, constantly and forever.

Wherever the winds of change blew them, he would always be Louis’s, and Louis would always be his. In the midst of a riptide, Louis was the rope to Harry’s anchor, the compass to guide his ship home.

A love like theirs is unstoppable, breathtaking, beautiful, and absolutely terrifying.

And Harry was _young._ Too young. Louis was too, but there’s a difference between 23 and 21. There’s something significant about finally drinking your first legal shot in an American bar (tequila, chased with lime and a kiss from your boyfriend) on your birthday and then, just a few months later, disconnecting yourself from the only constant you’ve had in your life since age 16. He and the rest of the boys had been thrown into a tornado from a young age and reveled in its spin for five intoxicating years, clinging to each other and smiling so wide their faces hurt, and now they were about to get their first breaths of still air. It was a thrilling and paralyzing prospect.

The night of Sheffield, their last concert as a band, was a memory that Harry would have forever. He knew that when his first solo album was released, he would hear his own voice from that night ringing in his ears: _“Make some noise, Sheffield!”_ He knew that when he won his first award as a solo artist, he would feel the ghosts of Niall, Liam, and Louis’s arms around him, the deafening screams from the audience a beautiful backing track. He knew that no matter where he went or how messy things got, he would always have those memories to turn to: of the celebrations that night, of hugs and laughter and tears. Of body shots off of Niall’s pale stomach, shaking with laughter. Of accidentally poking Josh in the eye with a drumstick. Of singing a karaoke version of “Hold Me” by Fleetwood Mac with a very, very drunk Liam. Of touching everyone, always having an arm around somebody to hold himself down, to tie himself to this memory for fear of losing it. Of suppressing all the bitterness in favor of savoring the sweet.

But festivity isn’t a permanent antidote for reality, and poison can’t be ignored. It’s hard to be at a party when you feel like an open wound. Sheffield was a memory that Harry would have forever: the good and the bad.

By 2am, Harry and Louis were back in their hotel room. They had pretty much sobered up, and all the exhaustion and negative feelings they had left behind when they went on stage that night came seeping back in, through the gap under the hotel room door, and the window that was cracked open slightly because Louis was hot, and the last vodka-scented breath Harry exhaled before the yelling started. Louis turned on the light and crouched down, rummaging in his duffel bag and extracting a pair of black joggers and a green hoodie.

Harry toed off his shoes and sat down on the bed, too tired to take off his clothes, just undoing his shirt and leaving it open, exposing his chest. He watched Louis’s deft fingers unbutton his own shirt. Watching as his sharp collarbones and angular shoulders poked out one by one as he dropped the shirt to the floor. Watching as he undid his tight black jeans and pulled them down, following their path over the plump curve of his bum with hungry eyes, as if in slow motion. Watching as his biceps flexed slightly. _Beautiful_. Harry suddenly felt a little horny after the long day of intense excitement. And Louis had looked so good tonight. Maybe just watching wouldn’t do.

Harry stood up from the bed and silently crept over to his boyfriend. Louis had turned his back to him and pulled on his hoodie, so Harry came up behind him and snaked his arms around his waist, lining their bodies up. He pressed his face into the crook of Louis’s neck, reveling in the soft warmth of his sweatshirt and his hair. He ghosted a light kiss over the skin of his neck, and then another. Louis didn’t turn around. He just sighed.

“Lou,” Harry whispered against the shell of his ear, begging. “Please.”

Louis turned around in his arms, and he suddenly seemed so tired. His eyes looked like they had been pushed a centimeter too deep into his face, his cheekbones cut into his cheeks too harshly, his skin was greyish, his lips pressed together tightly. Harry could see the brilliant blue of his eyes darken a shade, and his nostrils flared, barely noticeable. But Harry noticed. He pulled Louis closer into a hug, tightening his arms and breathing in his scent. He dug his fingers into his sweatshirt and buried his face in his neck even deeper, as if he was trying to climb inside Louis, trying to drown in him. Maybe he was.

Ever since they met, Louis’s favorite place was Harry’s arms. He would relax completely, turning into mush and letting Harry just hold him, squeeze him tight, hold his pieces together if he needed it. Tonight, though, Louis’s back muscles were tense and Harry felt a pang deep in his chest - a mixture of every emotion he had been trying to suppress. Sadness. Anger. Worry. Fear. 

It’s an unpleasant feeling when the adrenaline and drunkenness fade and all that’s left are the thoughts you had earlier, and they feel much more burdensome under moonlight. The feelings of the day drag you down in the night. Loneliness thrives off darkness, and it feels so much heavier when there is someone else in the room.

And that’s what the root of this was - Harry felt lonely. Louis had been right by his side for months, but he might as well have been on a different continent. Something had cracked in their relationship, allowing loneliness to sneak in and rear its ugly head between them.

Louis’s body shook suddenly; Harry thought it was a silent sob. He could feel Louis’s body falling apart in his arms, the cracks splintering deeper until he shattered into a hundred pieces. And Harry was there - _always_ \- to put him back together, but now he didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know which parts go where, how to coax Louis back to life, how to fix them both. That realization fucking terrified him.

“Louis, _please_ ,” Harry repeated softly, his voice breaking as Louis shook again. He didn’t know what he was begging for. Louis didn’t answer, just kept shaking. Harry didn’t know what to do except stroke him - his shoulder blades, his hair, the sides of his narrow waist. It was ironic that he had a hurricane of thoughts and feelings assaulting his brain, fighting for precedence and release, yet he couldn’t figure out how to wrangle the winds into real sentences. He longed to _explain_ to Louis all the pain tearing him up inside, but he couldn’t, so he didn’t. He just kept stroking him.

That seemed to work though, because a few minutes later, Louis gingerly lifted his head from Harry’s chest. Harry wasn’t quite ready to let go, but Louis reached behind himself, grabbed Harry’s forearms, and pulled them away from his body, extracting himself from his embrace. He looked away and Harry swore his own wrist tattoo transformed into a real anchor, because as Louis dropped his forearm, he could feel it pulling him down, down, down. He struggled to stand up straight. He took a shaky breath in through his nose and tried to meet Louis’s eyes, but he just turned his face further away.

Harry had seen those eyes full to the brim with elation, sadness, terror, fury, panic, mischief, and everything in between. Never had he seen them refusing to meet his own.

“Louis, look at me.” He did. Piercing Harry with twin stormy blue-grey daggers, Louis wiped his damp cheeks with his sweater sleeves and crossed his arms over his chest. He did not pop his hip, instead choosing to face Harry head-on. Harry had witnessed that exact change in demeanor, the switch to Louis’s ‘game face’, countless times, but it never failed to give him whiplash. _So, we’re doing this, I guess,_ Harry thought. He supposed that was good. Sometimes it is better to fight than to suppress, better to explode than to smother.

“I met with Simon the other day.”

That was _not_ what Harry was expecting to hear. “You- what?” Harry gaped. “Simon Cowell?”

Louis nodded (no snarky “What other Simon do we know, Harry?”, just a nod). “When we were in London for a bit. I wasn’t actually getting lunch with Molly; sorry I lied. Simon called me a while back, said he was heading for London and that he needed to speak with me,” Louis explained, monotone, almost bored. His tone did not match his words in the slightest - Louis just randomly had a little get together with _Simon_? Simon, whom they both hated? Simon, whom they had not seen face-to-face in months?

“Wai- Wh-” Harry spluttered, trying to organize his churning thoughts and stabilize his wobbly knees. “Why? What did you talk about?”

“The future.” His expression showed no indication of expanding on that statement.

“Like, the hiatus?” Harry prompted.

“Yeah. What I’m gonna do, how it’s all gonna work, that kind of thing.” Louis shrugged, but Harry could tell that that was in no way close to the whole truth of what Louis wanted to share. He could try to play nonchalant as much as he wanted, but Harry could see right through his mask, and Louis knew that. He broke their staring contest, sighing lowly and scrubbing his sweater paw down his face again. “Harry, I-” he cut himself off, distraught.

“Louis, just tell me. It’ll be okay. I promise,” Harry prodded gently, trying to keep his voice steady and comforting as his mind kicked into overdrive. Every awful, disgusting conversation they had ever had with Simon and various members of their management flashed through his head on a quick cycle. His mind immediately jumped to the worst. _Was Louis getting another beard?_ He had finally been able to let go of Eleanor back in March, but maybe they needed more promo or more heterosexuality for him. Harry got a bitter taste in his mouth and a flare of white-hot anger through his veins just thinking about it. _Was Simon going back on his agreement about the hiatus?_ Harry’s heart thumped even more rapidly in his chest, pounding against his ribs painfully. It had taken so much effort among the four of them to convince Simon to let them take a break, to let them _escape_ , but Harry wouldn’t put it past him to change his mind-

“I’m staying with Syco.”

Harry’s brain shuddered to a halt. The air around him stiffened, Louis’s words hanging heavily between them. Out of all the horrific possibilities his imagination had conjured, that was not on the list. 

“You’re-” Harry quickly shook his head, widening his eyes, trying his best to suppress the sudden wave of anger and fear that crashed over him, at least until he understood why Louis was saying what he was saying. “What? _Why_?” he asked incredulously, barking out half a laugh.

“I don’t really have a choice, Harry,” Louis scoffed. Harry could see him building up his fences, the defensive fortification that he immediately constructed at the prospect of any argument. This served to anger Harry further, his face heating slightly. He just wished Louis would, for _once_ , go into a conversation defenseless. Harry didn’t see the need to construct armor; it just escalated things. Defense is the best offense, and Louis _knew_ that.

“What happened to us transferring to Columbia together? I thought that was the whole plan,” Harry said, frowning.

“It was, I swear. It really was. I didn’t plan this,” Louis said in a moment of earnestness, and Harry believed him. “But I talked to Simon-”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry interrupted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Louis’s face tensed for a second, his eyes flashing, and Harry instantly regretted it.

“ _I talked to Simon_ ,” Louis continued, very firmly, “and he brought up some good points about why Columbia isn’t the best for me. For my career.”

“But, what points? What could Simon possibly have said to convince you to step away from the plans we’ve had set for months?” Harry asked, trying and pretty much succeeding to keep his voice under control.

“Columbia Records is _competitive_ , Harry. Like, really competitive. I would be eaten alive.” Harry’s eyes widened; he was shocked that that would be a position even worth considering for Louis. What was worse, though, is that Louis seemed to fully believe what he was saying. It wasn’t like when they were younger, and he stepped out of a meeting with Modest!, claiming to Harry that a fake relationship with Eleanor really was the best way to help their situation, when neither of them were really convinced. This wasn’t a regurgitation of Simon’s opinion, this was a manipulation: that horrible man’s words had crept their way into Louis’s brain and been deluded by his own insecurities, his own worries that only he and Harry really knew about.

Harry softened both internally and externally, taking a small step forward to try to close the gap between them, to try to comfort his love. “Lou, baby, it’ll be fine. You’ll do amazing. You’re just scared, and that’s okay, I am too. ‘M terrified. But we’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. All of your worries and insecurities, all of your cages, they’re all mental.” He reached out tentatively, one of his rings catching the light and glinting for a split second. Louis stepped back. Harry dropped his hands and stifled a gasp at the sudden stabbing pain in his chest from that single step, the small bubble of tension between them stealing all the air out of the room and inflating rapidly.

“No,” Louis shook his head fast, his eyes lighting up. “No, _Harry_ ,” he practically hissed. Harry blanched. “You don’t get to pull that with me. I _know_ I have worries and insecurities. And I know you know what they are. And yeah, they hinder me sometimes, like they do for everyone, but my ‘cages’” - he put finger quotations around the word - “are not all mental. Not when I’m going into this hiatus as the ‘least talented’ and ‘ugliest’ member of One Direction. Not when I’m the member of ‘the biggest band in the world’ that doesn’t really belong in it, the one that shouldn’t have made it.”

“Louis,” Harry argued, “you _know_ that’s not true. You are so fucking talented, and beautiful, and the opposite of whatever shit the stupid tabloids say about you. You know that, I know that, Liam and Niall know that. The critics see one tiny loose thread and pick at it until they can rip us apart enough to get a story out of it. The media just manipulates the truth. You know as well as I do, it’s all lies.”

“Yeah.” Louis sighed again and dragged a shaky hand through his hair. He looked so small, so fragile in just his black boxer briefs and that big green sweatshirt. “Yeah, I do know that. But those lies sell, and those lies influence my entire life. And right now, the public lie is that I’m the dead mouse that the boyband cat dragged in,” he remarked, spitting the words out like bitter poison.

“Fuck the public. It doesn’t matter. The people who _do_ matter know the real truth about you. No matter what _The_ fucking _Sun_ says, you will always be an essential member of this group. We would literally not be where we are without you, Louis!” Harry wasn’t aware that he had been gradually raising his voice, but by the end of his statement he was shouting and gesticulating exasperatedly.

So, naturally, Louis raised his voice, too. “It _does_ matter what they say, though! It affects me, Harry, personally and career-wise! Even if I was the best singer in the fucking world, do you really think people would buy my solo music if the media just shat on me all the time? No one gives a shit if they’re not told to.”

“But- that’s-,” Harry spluttered and took a deep breath to recollect his thoughts before trying again. Breathing did nothing to lower his voice. “That’s not always true! And we already have a fanbase, Louis, _you_ already have a fanbase! They love us so much and they’re fucking _loyal._ Sometimes- sometimes what the tabloids say doesn’t really matter that much.” He ran a hand through his hair and huffed. “Remember when Zayn left?”

“Don’t you _dare_ bring Zayn into this,” Louis spat. “Don’t you fucking dare.” His eyes blazed and Harry swore he saw a dash of red in them. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or maybe it was all the adrenaline pumping through him, or maybe he really was seeing a brand new side of Louis. That riled him up even more; he clung to that spark like it was all he had, banking on kindling the fire to try to melt the ice that had solidified between them in the past few months.

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t say. Zayn hurt me, too, you know, you’re not the only one,” Harry fought back.

“You know it was different! Zayn was my best friend,” Louis’s voice broke infinitesimally and he swallowed it down, just to spit it back out again. “You weren’t the one who had to fake a _public fight_ on fucking Twitter with him!”

Harry sighed and scrubbed a hand down his face. “You’re right. And I’m sorry about that. I know how painful it was for you, and it was fucking awful that they made you do that. But the point I was trying to make still stands. The media tore him the fuck apart for leaving. They said some disgusting things about him, and then they got over it. And I guarantee you his album is gonna do well. He still has a devoted fanbase!”

“Harry, you can’t compare me to Zayn. You just can’t. He has the voice of a motherfucking angel and I-”

“Lou, that’s-”

“No, Harry! Let me speak,” Louis growled. “I am _not_ as good of a singer as him. That’s not me being self-deprecatory, which _I know is a flaw of mine_ ,” he emphasized, seeing that Harry had opened his mouth to argue again, “that’s just a straight-up fact. And you’ve heard some of the songs he sent me, he makes a completely different style of music than what I’m gonna go for. And, yeah, I love what he’s sent so far, he’s popping out bangers like it’s nothing! But if I try to make myself do that, I’m gonna go crazy. I don’t want to go pop.”

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with record labels though,” Harry responded quietly, swallowing. He was trying to steer the argument back towards a more reasonable path. Talking about Zayn for too long would not end well; in fact, he probably shouldn’t have mentioned him in the first place. 

The arch of Louis’s eyebrows turned slightly less harsh and he, too, lowered his voice to a normal level. The thrums of adrenaline and anger were still present, but they no longer took precedence. “Simon was saying that since Columbia’s just generally bigger and better than Syco, it will be way too hard for me to get anywhere. I’m just not really... at the same level as their other artists. He said I’d be unsuccessful. That it would be a waste of all my potential.”

The sadness in Louis’s voice was masked with anger, but Harry could still hear it loud and clear. It dug deep into his heart and it _hurt._ The things he was saying, the things Simon had told him, just were not true. How could Harry convince Louis of the truth when he seemed so attached to the lies he had been fed?

“Louis,” he sighed, “he’s manipulating you. I promise you that you’ll be okay with Columbia. I think Simon just told you that because he wants you to stay. He loves controlling you, and he knows that you’ll be his most successful artist if Niall, Liam, and I leave. He’s using you and exploiting you,” Harry insisted, “and he’s doing it in a way that makes you think you have no way out!” 

“Don’t tell me what I think,” Louis said lowly. “This is hard for me. Obviously I don’t want to stay with Simon. I fucking hate the man, you _know_ I do, H.” He rubbed furiously at his eyes, scratched his chin, and took a shaky breath. “I think I need to listen to him, though. Think about it - the only real reason he does what he does is because he cares about his own image. He’s not purposely trying to sabotage me, that would make him look bad. He doesn’t want any of his precious boyband recruits to fail.”

Harry could feel the frustration building in his stomach again, and he struggled to control his voice. “But think of all the shit we’ve been through the past five years - that’s all because of Syco. Do you really want to keep going through that? You finally have an out, why don’t you take it?” he pleaded.

“I preach ‘fuck Syco’ just as much as the next closeted singer,” Louis said, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t try to tell me you think I like it. _Stockholm Syndrome_ ’s a song, not my life.”

“If you hate it, which I know you do, then I don’t understand why you don’t just leave!” Harry threw his hands up, seriously exasperated now. “You’re one fourth of one of the most successful bands; we all have a great platform to jump off of for our solo careers. Like, I really don’t get what the issue is. And I know it’s not because you’re worried about Simon’s feelings or some shit. Fuck him, fuck them all, you’re _Louis fucking Tomlinson_! You can do what you want!”

That terrifying flare was back in Louis’s eyes, his shoulders stiffened, and his face contorted. “You don’t get it! You can’t!” he shouted. “Not everyone can be as talented and loved as THE Harry Styles!” His words slapped Harry in the face and he remained silent for a moment, shocked and hurt and trying to ignore the disgust and pure venom with which Louis had spat out his name. Louis didn’t give him time to recover and retaliate, he just kept going. “You have the best base platform out of all of us, Harry! They’ve set you up for the best success! You’ve always been the favorite! Whether it’s with fans or with the stupid general public, you’re ‘the frontman’ and I’m just slinking in your shadow!”

Louis was furiously yelling now, and didn’t seem like he was planning on stopping any time soon. Harry was stunned as Louis continued. “Liam- he- Liam’s gonna be fine! He’s a fucking amazing performer, he could sell out MSG doing card tricks! And Niall, everyone fucking loves him. He’s the ‘ _cute one’_ or whatever the fuck they’re calling him now. And I’ve heard some of the stuff he’s started to write, and it’s amazing, Harry. And you- you-,” he stuttered and slowed for a second, like he was trying to find what to say next. Harry could’ve easily jumped in and interrupted then, but he felt like Louis had to get this out. Harry had a lot to say, of course, too, but Louis looked like he _needed_ this. “Harry, you’re so fucking talented. Sometimes it keeps me up at night. You have a fucking boombox in your chest and you’re an incredible songwriter.” Despite the heat of the situation, Harry felt himself blush sheepishly. “And I don’t know what to do. I’m _not_ that. Don’t try to argue. My voice has no power compared to yours.”

“Lou,” Harry’s voice broke and tears were suddenly pooling in his eyes. He _hated_ this. “That’s not true. You are so talented. Your voice is unique, and special, and so strong. It’s incredible. And yeah, we all have different strengths.” He waited nervously for Louis to flinch. He didn’t. “My chest is nearly twice the size of yours. Of course I can fit a bigger boombox in there than you can,” he tried to chuckle. He waited nervously for Louis to chuckle, too. He didn’t. “But look at _Midnight Memories._ Look at _FOUR_ or _Made in the A.M._ Those albums are _yours_ , baby. You know it - if it’s one of our good songs, that means you wrote on it! You are a stunning songwriter. And there are a lot of paths, a lot of wide open doorways for us to consider, and I know that you’re scared because they’re so open, but this is your chance to choose the path _you_ want! Not what Syco wants, or what Julian wants.” He huffed out a breath and fiddled with his rings, staring at his hands for a moment, trying to sort his thoughts out. He met Louis’s eyes again with his own teary ones, and spoke slower. “Your music will be yours in a way that it’s never been before. I don’t want you to sell yourself short because you’re afraid of failure. Half the artists signed with Columbia have nothing on you.”

It was silent for a few moments. They just stared at each other, blue eyes meeting green and trying to blend like they used to, to envision a beautiful life together like they used to. It didn’t happen. The atmosphere stayed still between them, both burning hot and freezing at the same time, and Harry had no idea what to do about it.

Then Louis broke the silence with a low voice, close to a whisper, like thunder rolling and rumbling in the distance. Preparing for the lightning and the storm. “Why do you want me to sign to Columbia so bad?”

“I want the best for you. Only the best. I hate seeing you trapped.”

Louis’s jawline clenched and his eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, this decision is hard for me. But I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. And it’s gonna be so fucking difficult to see you get to open up while I have to stay shut, but I guess that’s how it always is.” He scoffed. “Mr. ‘Not That Important’ and his best hetero friend Louis.”

“C’mon, Lou, what the hell did you want me to do about that?” Harry rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “I’m not sorry for saying that. And it was months ago, and you only ever seem to pull it out as an attack when we’re arguing. If they told you that you were allowed to hint at not being straight, you would jump on it in a second. And I’d let you.” Louis crossed his arms too. “Might I remind you, also, that me being ‘open,’ as you put it, benefits you too! The fans already link us so closely, so I’m pretty sure they saw that comment as a ‘Larry proof’ or whatever.”

Louis snorted. “You love soaking this up. You love this ‘Larry’ shit so much that sometimes I think you forget that we’re not just ‘Larry,’ we’re also Louis and Harry. And you go about making cock jokes, and wearing floral suits, and prancing around with gay flags on stage, _flaunting it_ right in front of me. And I _am_ happy for you, Harry, so happy! I really am.” He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends. “But sometimes it’s like you fail to consider whether I’m happy for _me_ , too. I want to make cock jokes. I want to wear floral suits. I want so much to grab those fucking pride flags the fans bring to shows, to celebrate with them, to celebrate with _you_ ,” Louis’s voice cracked and a fat tear rolled down his cheek, “but I fucking can’t. And I know that staying with Syco will probably just push back that finish line for me, but put yourself in my shoes for a second. I know they’re just plain trainers, not the sparkly gold boots you get to wear,” he narrowed his eyes at Harry, and it felt almost cruel, “but just try for me. Imagine having to choose between your career and your closeting. Would you choose your music or the floral suits?”

“Louis,” Harry started, his voice shaking with anger and hurt, his fists clenched and trembling at his sides. “I can’t believe you would use those things against me. I want more than anything - more than _anything_ , Lou - to be able to dance with you and hold hands with you and kiss you in public. But I seriously cannot believe that you’re using the small amount of freedom I have as a weapon!”

“I’m not using anything as a weapon, I’m stating facts!”

“I’m trapped, too!” Harry bellowed. “And I promise you that’s not gonna change when I’m signed with Columbia! They paint me as a man-whore! I’m a fucking gay womanizer!” Harry practically laughed, but it was cold and horrifying. He glanced at the small mirror on the wall of their hotel room and he barely recognized himself.

“You know what, Harry?” Louis drew himself up and raised his voice, and suddenly he didn’t seem so small, even with his bare legs and oversized hoodie. “I think you like the attention!”

“Don’t you fucking dare. They make me look awful! I _hate_ the person the public thinks I am!”

“Whatever happened to ‘it doesn’t matter what the media says,’” Louis scoffed. “At least you don’t have to go on pap walks constantly. At least you don’t have to wear clothes you hate, hold a hand that’s too small; at least you don’t have to _kiss your fake girlfriend._ ”

“I’ve kissed my fair share of women, Louis. You’re not the only one who’s closeted here.” Harry glared at him, and the sheer amount of anger and hurt pent up inside scared him. He was close to his boiling point. Some voice in the back of his head was screaming at him to slow down, to never reach that point because it wouldn’t be good for anyone, to hold back and reconcile and just _lower his goddamn voice_ , but he could barely hear it over the rush of blood pumping in his ears, the fury and pain speeding through his veins. He opened his mouth wide, waved his hands, and shouted, “And it hurts me too, Louis! Seeing you kiss her. I know you’re forced to, so I don’t blame you, but it fucking tears me apart!”

“You think I like it?” Louis screamed back. “You think it doesn’t tear me apart too?!”

“I never said that -”

“No, Harry, you didn’t. But you implied it. I think you know - somewhere deep down, because you’re _smart_ , but you’re also so fucking _daft_ \- that I’m not choosing Syco because I like it. I’m choosing Syco because I love music. I’m choosing Syco because I don’t want to fail at the only thing I’m good for. I don’t want to waste the amount of work and passion I’ve put into this band for the past five years because I can’t keep up with other artists.” He paused, wiping a tear away furiously. Harry touched his own face and realized his cheeks were wet, too. “I don’t want to do this.”

“What, _this_?” Harry asked skeptically, gesturing between them.

“No, the hiatus. I don’t want things to change.” His voice was suddenly quieter now, but the anger had definitely not dissipated. His eyes were stormier than ever, but tinged with so much sadness they were painful to look at. “I’m not ready for it, and I don’t care if that makes me sound like a child; I never had the chance to be a normal adult. I live for this, even as shitty as it can be, and I’m afraid I won’t like what comes next.”

“Don’t be like that, Lou. We’ve talked about this so many times,” Harry said, frustratedly dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re just exhausted. We all need a break. It’ll do us good.”

Louis’s voice rose in volume yet again as he shot back, “Yeah, we are all exhausted from this. But that’s not the only reason I’m tired, Harry.” His glare launched icy daggers across the room, which only served to make Harry more irate.

“You’re probably tired because you spend all your energy being angry with me!” he shouted in red-hot response.

Despite his face being contorted with unadulterated rage, Louis’s next words were born from pure heartbreak. “No, it’s because I spend all my energy reminding myself – _convincing myself,_ Harry – that you’re still here! That you’re not slipping away from me.” His voice cracked. “It feels like you’re slipping away from me.”

Harry’s face fell. “That makes two of us.”

Silence fell between them and the deepest, strongest fatigue that Harry had ever felt sunk into his chest, his toes, his shoulders, dragging everything downward. His rings suddenly felt too heavy, his eyelids drooped, his gaze fell to the floor, his back muscles finally relaxed a little bit. He was so _tired._

“We can’t keep doing this, Harry,” Louis said through thick tears, and the words cut through the fog like ice, piercing Harry’s ears. He jerked his head up to look, terrified, at Louis. His Louis. The love of his life. “We can’t keep tearing each other apart and expecting to just magically fix the holes.” He sniffled. “There are holes in us, baby. And we keep trying to fix them with words, but we just get so vicious with each other and our words shoot to kill. We keep making the holes bigger. I don’t know when it happened, but I know that I can feel it and I can’t ignore it anymore and I-,” he choked, “I don’t know what to do about it.” Louis suddenly gasped, a wet and guttural sound, and then he gasped again, and he kept gasping, trying and failing to catch his breath through his tears.

Harry watched. He didn’t step forwards for fear of Louis stepping backwards again. He had already done it once tonight, and Harry didn’t know if he would be able to handle it again. His brain was so full of static, his emotions so thick, smothering him like a plastic bag over his face. He couldn’t think straight; he couldn’t speak. So he just stood there, watching. Watching as Louis gaped and spluttered like a fish out of water. Watching as Louis curled in on himself, shuddering. Watching as he crouched down on fragile legs and grabbed his joggers off the floor, pulling them on one shaking leg at a time. Watching as he slipped his feet into his sneakers. Watching as he zipped his duffel bag and stood up straight, turning to face Harry again. His hip wasn’t popped, but his arms weren’t crossed, either. He left his bag on the floor.

Suddenly, Harry’s cloud of static and confusion exploded, punctured by the knives thrown his way by Louis’s eyes. They weren’t dark anymore, just icy and glimmering with tears. _Beautiful._ Harry knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that if Louis picked up that bag, the sun would go out.

Harry found his voice. “Please, Lou.” It broke right as he started speaking. “Don’t do this. We can work it out. We can keep trying.” He started frantically apologizing. For what, he wasn’t sure. He just knew he had to throw countless ‘I’m sorry’s into the space between them, hoping that some of them would take aim, that some of them would stick.

“I’m sorry, too, Haz,” Louis interrupted. “I feel like we’ve run out of things we can say.”

A moment - one last moment - passed between them, where they breathed the same air and felt the same feelings. Unbearable pain. Fiery passion and blazing anger. The most intensely visceral emotions Harry had ever experienced. And _so much love._

Harry wondered if Louis was seeing the key moments in their relationship playing before his eyes like flashbacks on a film reel too, or if it was just him. He wondered if Louis was seeing his young, bright face grow nearer as they leaned into their first kiss in the kitchen back at Princess Park in 2010, the smell of mozzarella and slightly burnt chicken in the background. He wondered if Louis was seeing Paris from above, the lights of the buildings and cars glimmering like grounded stars, shining up at them - just for them - when they finally reached the top of the Eiffel tower on Valentines’ Day in 2012. He wondered if Louis was seeing stars collide with pleasure and naked skin, sweating and steaming, in Dallas in 2012 and the tour bus in 2013, and countless other times. He wondered if Louis was seeing every stolen glance from across the stage or interview couch; hearing every lyric change, directed at him, _just for him_ ; tasting every new flavor of food, alcohol, kisses they shared; smelling the countless nights of sex and liquor, the countless mornings of bad breath and coffee; feeling the eternal remnants of the purest happiness and the deepest hurt.

He thought Louis must have been reliving these things along with him, because after the film reel ran out, Louis cleared his throat and looked at Harry from across the room, his eyes sunken and hollow and still so brilliantly blue they were hard to focus on, and it was no longer aggressive, no longer an attack, he was just looking. He wiped away a tear that was clinging to his lashes. He clenched his jaw. 

He leaned down and picked the bag up off the floor.

He opened the door.

“Don’t follow me.”

\--

There is a difference between being lonely and being alone.

Harry had felt the loneliness for a long time, like a chasm in his stomach, a black hole in his chest. It had snarled and hissed and marred everything in its path, every experience that should have been joyful. Despite having Louis’s hand in his own, or Liam’s arm around him, or Niall’s hand stroking his hair, or thousands of strangers all reaching out to touch him, he had felt the loneliness.

But this aloneness was a different kind of emptiness. It was something tangible - or rather, its lack of tangibility was tangible. There was no one there to touch. No Louis there to hold.

For the few days after Sheffield, Harry couldn’t focus or eat or sleep. He could barely breathe. He basked in his own misery like a lizard lounging on a rock that’s too hot, letting it burn its scales and allowing the pain to seep inside, too tired to move to safety.

He tried a few times to write a letter to Louis. He would drag himself out from underneath the white comforter of the hotel bed (the boys had had their rooms rented for multiple days so they could relax a bit after their last show. Ha.) and slink over to the small desk. He would pull out a pen, open his songwriting notebook, full of pages upon pages of what he had always thought were the most vulnerable words he could possibly produce, write _“Dear Lou,”_ and then shudder, put the pen away, close the notebook, and crawl back into bed.

He hadn’t left the hotel room in four days. Mid-afternoon on the day after the show, Niall came by and knocked on his door. Harry didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if Niall even knew that Louis was gone, and he didn’t think he had the strength to tell him. Then, he thought Niall must have known because instead of his usual routine of incessant pounding and shouting if one of the boys didn’t answer, he knocked just once more, called “I’ll come back tomorrow, Haz,” through the door, then trod away back down the hallway. He did come back the next day, and the one after that. Harry never answered, ever the drama queen. Also, in his defense, he was in shock and absolutely devastated.

Liam came by once, too, and did the same thing as Niall. Maybe Harry was just imagining it, but he sounded a tad less sympathetic.

Harry was so, so close with Liam (all the boys were best friends, inextricably tight knit), but he didn’t feel quite the connection with him that he did with Niall. The same could be said for Louis and Liam, who had clung even more fiercely to each other than usual after Zayn had left. 

Harry assumed that Liam knew Louis’s whereabouts, or at least more than anyone else did, but he found that he didn’t even want to ask him. He was hurting so badly he couldn’t think straight, but he knew deep down that Louis needed space and time. He didn’t know if they were broken up - the idea was unfathomable to him - but he knew that no matter what happened, Louis would come back eventually. Even if just to move out of their house (although Harry didn’t want to consider that prospect).

So, he just lay there, immobile and nonfunctioning.

On the fourth day of drowning, Niall returned to his old habits. Harry had _finally_ fallen asleep around 6am, and he was still resting fitfully at 11. That is, until he abruptly woke to Niall’s incessant pounding on the door.

“Harold Edward Styles!” he called through the door, accent thick and sounding more pitying than angry. “Enough of this! Open the damn door!”

As much as the thought of getting out of bed made him feel like throwing up, Harry knew he didn’t have a choice. He slowly sat upright, the world tilting and swaying around him, and his feet found the floor. When he stood up and rounded the bed, his heart skipped a beat in his chest.

Crumpled on the floor in front of the armchair was a sweater. Dark blue, woolen, cable-knit, and tinted with the smell of vanilla, mint, and faint smoke. Louis’s sweater, taunting him. He must have accidentally left it behind in his rush to leave.

Harry stared blankly at it for a little while. Of course, his overdramatic and underslept brain ground into sluggish action - did Louis leave it here on purpose, as a promise that he’d return? Is this a sign? Or did he leave it so Harry would have something to remember him by when he cut him off completely? As if the countless matching tattoos and cryptic song lyrics and vivid memories weren’t enough. Or-

“Harry!” Niall’s Irish accent rang loudly through the door, accompanied by another sharp rap. “I know you’re awake by now, you silly bastard!”

When he opened the door to let his friend in, Harry was wearing a sweater. Dark blue, woolen, cable-knit, and tinted with the smell of home.

“Jesus, H,” Niall said, eyes round and saddened. “You look awful, mate.”

Harry didn’t even have the energy for a joking ‘thanks.’ He just nodded.

Niall stepped into the room and immediately sat on the bed, patting the space in front of him to beckon Harry. He was holding two steaming mugs in his hands. As Harry reluctantly sat down, he handed one over.

“It’s tea time,” he said, slurping loudly from his own mug to emphasize his point. “No avoiding it anymore.”

“Ni,” Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes, “I don’t want tea time. I want to sleep.” He took a sip, though.

“No. Enough locking yourself up. You’re getting pruney, and you’re not even in the bathtub.” He sipped lightly from his mug. “We have to check out in a few hours, and you need to get out of this funk.”

Harry sighed tiredly. “Don’t you think I’ve been trying?”

“No, I don’t, actually,” Niall said, his eyes soft and kind and so blue. “I think you’ve been moping. And wallowing. Which is okay, and understandable, but it’s time to get you up. I’m worried about you, Haz.”

“I’m worried about me, too.”

With that, he broke, his shoulders slumping, his tea splashing in the mug and almost spilling onto the bedding, his head dipping down. His long hair fell in front of his face and Niall brushed it behind his ear.

“Oh, Haz. Change of plans,” he said gently, looking at the precariously balanced cup in Harry’s possession. “Do you want tea, or do you want to not have to worry about holding anything?”

“The second one.”

Niall wordlessly took the tea from his shaky hand and reached over to place both of their mugs on the bedside table. He turned back to Harry, sitting cross-legged, and patted his lap. Harry collapsed on top of him, his face smushed into his friend’s chest and his fingers twisting in his t-shirt. He cried loudly and unashamedly, Niall _shh_ ing him gently and running his fingers through his hair softly.

After a few minutes of sobbing, Niall thought it was safe to speak up. “I’m sorry to make you talk about it, but _what happened_?”

Harry sniffled, turned onto his back, and let his head rest in Niall’s lap, gazing up at him through teary lashes, his eyes like a blue sky above him. “I don’t know,” he spoke. Voice raspy and painfully thick from days of uselessness. “We got in a huge fight. I think this has been coming for a long time though.”

“But you guys are the best fighters I know. You _always_ make up, no matter what shit you throw at each other.”

“I know, but this time-,” he choked, and held the sweater sleeve up to his nose, and inhaled deeply, and continued shakily. “Oh, god, we said some awful things. Ni, _I said some awful things._ ”

And then he was back to crying, the ghosts of every cruel word that was uttered in the first hours of November circling around the room, bombarding his senses, picking his brain apart agonizingly. And Niall was there, fingertips scratching lightly at his scalp; and the memories were there, of the fight and of every fight before it and of every glorious moment before that; and Louis was there, woven inextricably into the threads of the sweater and the spaces between his ribs and every burning inch of his skin. And it was all too much, a sensory overload boosted by the sickening misery coiling in his stomach, as he shook in his best friend’s lap, as they shared between them the pain of Louis leaving.

And then he felt Niall shake underneath him, and a cold drip fell into his hair from above, and mother bear Harry came out immediately. He sat up, wiped his tears, forced his breathing to be even, and looked his friend in the eyes; green to blue, both shining with boiling tears.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled, his voice wavering pathetically, “this hurts you too. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Niall said, furiously wiping his tears. “Nuh-uh. I told myself I wouldn’t cry. Yeah, it hurts, but this is about you. Don’t worry about me. I’m mostly crying because I hate seeing you upset, and I’m so incredibly pissed at your stupid, stupid boyfriend.” He glared angrily out the window, as if Louis would be floating there, listening in. His face paled. “Wait. He’s still your boyfriend, right?”

“I- er,” Harry shifted his gaze down to his lap, twisting his fingers together anxiously.

“Harry, tell me you two didn’t break up.”

“We didn’t? I don’t think. I’m not sure. We really went at each other, Ni.” He felt sick just thinking about it. “And then… then he said there are… holes in our relationship, or something, and that I can’t fix them, and that we’ve run out of things to say.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry, H,” Niall said, sympathy drawing his eyebrows together and dragging the corners of his mouth downwards. “I don’t think that’s a breakup, though, if that makes you feel any better. I think, after everything you two have been through, Louis would make it very clear if he wanted it to be over.”

“Why did he leave then? He told me not to follow him,” Harry explained, voice weak and fragile.

“I think he needs some space. If I’m being honest, I think you both do. This transition that’s coming is so hard for all of us, and you and him have been sort of… struggling lately. There’s nothing wrong with some space.”

“But it’s not just _space._ I have _no idea_ where he went. No idea when he’s gonna come back, or what he’ll say when he gets here.” _I don’t even know if he’ll come back at all._ Harry kept that last bit inside, afraid that if he let the words out they would float over to Louis, wherever he was, and burrow in his brain. _He has to come back,_ he thought desperately. Maybe if he thought hard enough, Louis would be able to hear him. _Lou, please come home._

Louis didn’t magically appear in the hotel room, but Niall did seem to hear his thoughts, catching Harry off guard with a reminder of just how well he knows his best friend. “He’ll come back, Harry. You two are together. _Always._ That doesn’t go away after one bad argument.”

Harry eyed him skeptically. “But this wasn’t just one bad argument,” he said, the sadness and fear of losing the love of his life making his voice sound whiny.

“I know,” Niall sighed sadly. “I know. You’ve both been on edge for months and I think you two just reached your lowest point. But it’ll be alright. You’ll be okay.”

Harry tried his hardest to believe him. He nodded, his limp and unwashed curls flopping. He wiped a dried tear from his cheek, his skin feeling clammy and greasy beneath his fingers. He sniffled, and just the smallest breath of Louis’s scent drifted up to his nose from where it was hugging his torso and arms. It no longer felt like poison. It was a breath of fresh air, and it empowered him. 

_You’ll be okay,_ he repeated to himself. _You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay._ Soon, the Irish accent with which the words were originally spoken transformed into the sound of his own deep English lilt. _You’ll be okay._

_Louis,_ he whispered in his head, willing the words to cross the miles between the two of them, willing them to tie themselves around Louis, his Louis, and bring him home. Willing them to be the anchor to his rope. _Louis, we’ll be okay._

\--

Harry stared out the window, following the swift passing of trees, watching the highway roll out before them and speed away under them. He was riding in the same car as always, but it felt different. The absence of Louis in the seat next to him, falling asleep on his shoulder even though he _swore_ he’d stay awake this time, was blaring and unignorable. 

Creativity hits at the most random of times, and it never rests. Not even when you’re about to break down in the back seat of a car. _Thoughts from a troubled brain. Old car on new terrain_ , the voice in Harry’s head muttered, forever whirring out song lyrics even when all his mind wanted to do was cry or sleep or disappear. _Thoughts from a troubled brain, worth a penny, worth the pain._ He shook his head. That line’s shit. He considered extracting his notebook from his bag on the floor to jot down his ideas, but decided against it. His head felt like lead, leaned up against the window, jostling with the bumps in the road and buzzing with random floating thoughts, none of them solidifying enough to really take shape. Also, he was pretty sure Niall thought he was asleep, and if he moved to grab his bag he would have to talk to him, when all he really wanted was to be alone and at home. That’s where he was heading - London, his city, his home. His house. His and _Louis’s_ house, he reminded himself. Not a home right now. Niall was traveling with Harry but staying at his own place in London, whereas Liam was taking a separate car. He had decided that morning when they all checked out of the hotel that he would go to Wolverhampton to visit his family, now that tour was over. Though Harry supposed they’d have much more time to visit their families now.

A few of his floating thoughts congealed together, and became real words in his mind. They echoed around in his skull with a melody that appeared alongside them. _My bad days, my errant ways, your arms around my waist; this is a waste. Why didn’t you stay? I know it’s a waste, but you should have stayed._ The lyrics flowed nicely but seared every neuron they touched, bitter and acidic and too painful right now. Maybe he’d work with them later; maybe they’d pop back up while writing for his first album. Not right now, though.

But his mind worked on its own, and it seemed to have no regard for his feelings. The words just kept singing themselves, and all Harry could do was listen and try not to let them hurt too much. 

_Your laughing face, our dying days, how much of me will you take?_

_What does it take_

_to make you see?_

_That you cannot take_

_much more of me._

Harry knew he was blinded by love. Since the day they met, he had been completely gone for Louis. He knew his own weaknesses, of course, and he knew Louis’s too, and he loved them. But knowing what your issues are doesn’t make them go away. And loving someone despite their flaws - no, loving someone _for_ their flaws - doesn’t solve everything. He and Louis had the same fights over and over again, and they never moved forward. Louis was right about the holes: they ripped each other apart and then they’d put a bandage over the cuts but they’d never disinfect them in the first place, never let them heal properly.

_Thoughts from a smitten brain, losing this same old game._

_Addicted to a familiar drug, falling into the hole we’ve dug._

The car hit a bump and Harry’s head banged hard against the glass and he relished the pain of it. He wanted more bumps, more potholes. Any external pain to distract him from the way his brain was ripping itself apart, fraying at the seams. He tugged at his hair and gritted his teeth. Maybe he could hit his head so hard that those stupid words would float away.

Niall must have heard him sob and seen him shudder, but he didn’t say anything. He just reached over and placed a soothing hand on his shoulder, rubbing up and down with the rhythm of the passing highway markers. 

Niall must have heard his mind whirring and seen his eyebrows pull together subconsciously, his fingers tapping a rhythm without him meaning to. He reached into Harry’s bag and pulled out his songwriting notebook. He stroked one hand through Harry’s hair and placed the book gently in his lap. Harry pushed it away. 

If the lyrics he had come up with were truly important to him, if they were really meant to be, he would find them again. They would come back to him. He rolled down his window just a crack, just enough to get a breath of crisp air. Just enough to let the vivid, beautiful sky in, if it wanted to join them ( _the middle seat is wide open for you!_ Harry silently shouted to it). The blue poured into the car, and Harry welcomed it. 

\--

Stepping into his London house felt like heartbreak. Crossing the threshold for the first time in months - _months_ \- and having to do it without Louis next to him. Turning the lights on to greet a house, not a home. Opening the fridge to find nothing, and then just standing there with the white light making his hands look weird, his stomach grumbling and his limbs feeling heavy. 

That’s what broke him again. He was so hungry. He had barely eaten in days, devoting all of his energy to pushing everyone away and staying locked in his room, and now that he was responsible for himself again he suddenly didn’t want to be alone anymore. He just stared into the fridge until it hurt his eyes and then he started crying. He closed it and banged his fists on the door, rattling one of the dog-shaped magnets, protuberant and ceramic, that Phoebe and Daisy had given Louis in his Christmas stocking. A small, magnetic wire basket holding a few pens rattled, too. It slipped off the fridge and fell to the ground. The pens fell out and Harry stooped to pick them up but he just couldn’t. He looked at them for a while. He sat down next to them, leaning against the counter with his head in his hands and tears dripping down his wrists. He felt the pain fully and deeply in his chest and when it traveled down to his stomach he pretended it was food.

Showering alone hurt, too. Sleeping alone was worse. Despite having slept solo for days now, something about being alone in a bed he had shared so many times tore him apart. He pulled the extra pillow to his shaky chest, dripped tears on it, wrapped his arms and legs around it like a koala, and pretended it was living, breathing, brown-haired, blue-eyed, when really all the company he had was the ache in his chest and the pens on the kitchen floor.

\--

Three days later, Harry was sitting on the couch, watching but not really watching _Sherlock_ , when a knock sounded from the front door. He shot up so fast he almost fell over, and he nearly tripped over the coffee table in his rush. 

His heart pounding in his chest, he opened the door. He knew he shouldn’t have done that. Fans, paparazzi, stalkers; there was no way of knowing if the person on the doorstep was malignant. In all his excitement to finally, maybe see Louis - to touch him and hug him and pull at his sweatshirt and scratch at his back and kiss him all over - he forgot to consider his own safety.

Fortunately, the person at the door was not a kidnapper.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Louis either.

Harry stepped back to let the guest in, and wearily shut the door, dragging a hand down his face and trying to ignore the disappointment in his chest. The excitement faded and exhaustion settled in heavier than before.

Niall made himself at home in Harry’s kitchen, putting a kettle on and rummaging around in the cupboards. He had brought a few bags with him, and was getting to work on unpacking them. Eggs, milk, bread, bananas, Neapolitan ice cream, a box of macaroni and cheese. Harry watched him silently from the edge of the kitchen until he absorbed what he was seeing and realized he was being rude. He stepped forward to help but Niall wordlessly pushed him away.

“Why are these on the floor?” were Niall’s first words since entering, as he set the eggs he was holding down on the island and crouched to pick up the pens in front of the fridge. 

Something snapped into life inside of Harry and he rushed forward. “Don’t!” he practically shouted and Niall immediately backed away, hands in the air and a stunned expression on his face. He must’ve seen the pleading in Harry’s eyes, though, because he let it slide and left the pens on the floor. Harry didn’t know why he couldn’t just pick the damn pens up. He couldn’t bring himself to do it on his own, but the thought of Niall doing it for him made his head spin. 

With all the groceries put away and cups of tea in both of their hands, Niall turned to Harry. He looked him up and down and his face didn’t scream pity, just sadness. Empathy.

“Harry, did you eat anything today?” Harry shook his head slowly. “Have you eaten since coming home?”

“I ordered Chinese takeout a couple days ago.”

“I’m making you eggs.”

He set to work again, wordlessly buttering up a frying pan and whisking two eggs in a bowl. “Niall…” Harry broke the silence tentatively, his tea swimming around in his stomach and making him queasy. “Why are you doing this? I can take care of myself.”

The blond man turned to face him, the eggs sizzling lightly in the pan. “Really?” He raised an eyebrow and gestured at Harry. He crossed his arms. “Because you haven’t been.”

“At least I’m showering now,” Harry argued.

Niall pierced him with a skeptical stare. “There won’t be any of you to wash if you don’t eat.”

Harry sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Fair. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, mate. I’m just worried. Figured I should come check up on you.”

“You’re too good to me,” Harry muttered, setting his mug down and pulling his best friend into a tight hug, hooking his head over his shoulder as Niall rubbed his back soothingly. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve all the good things in life, Haz. All of them,” Niall said into his shoulder. He pulled away, keeping his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “You deserve eggs that hopefully aren’t too bad - you’ve always been the best cook - and tea and cuddles if you want. I’m here for you, mate.”

“Thank you,” Harry nearly whispered, his voice weak, his eyes prickling again. He sat down in one of the stools at the granite island, and Niall turned back to the stovetop.

“No problem at all.”

Ten minutes later, the pair settled on the couch, the TV paused, with fresh cups of tea for both of them and scrambled eggs and toast for Harry.

“So,” Niall began, eyeing him with a look that Harry couldn’t quite identify. “How are you?”

“How do you think I am?” Harry scoffed. Niall’s eyebrows twitched upwards and he immediately felt terrible. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Ni. You’ve been nothing but nice. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it. I just want to help.”

“I…” Harry didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how he was. “I’m okay, I think. I’m just feeling, like, numb. And so sad and tired, even though I do nothing but cry and sleep all day. It just feels like I’m missing half of myself. I’m not mad anymore though.” He cleared his throat and Niall looked skeptical. “Really.”

“Harry, you know I love Louis with my whole damn heart, but you don’t deserve what he is doing to you.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “He’s not doing anything to me. I’m not mad at him for leaving anymore. I’ve thought about it a lot.” It was the truth: he had spent the last few days wallowing, with only himself to keep him company, and he had reached the closest thing to peace with Louis’s leaving as he thought possible. “I’m not a victim here.”

“You’re still here though. You didn’t just leave without telling anyone.” Niall sounded more bitter than he did at the hotel. Maybe now that Harry was calmer, he was letting his own guard down a little.

“He didn’t leave for no reason. I hurt him.” He placed his empty plate on the coffee table and looked down at his hands, fingers fiddling in his lap.

“You hurt him, H, but he hurt you too. We all saw it. We all watched it happen.”

Harry pulled at a loose thread in the seam of his sweatpants and was silent for a moment. Then he looked up, meeting Niall’s blazing eyes. “I’m confused. You want me to be okay, but you’re trying to convince me to be mad at him?”

“I don’t _want_ you to be mad, I just-,” he sighed and stared sadly at Harry. “Sometimes you’re too forgiving. Like, you let yourself get walked over. I obviously want you and Louis to move on and be better, but I don’t want you to just pretend this never happened. You have a right to be mad.”

“I don’t want to be mad at him. It hurts,” Harry said honestly.

“If he came back suddenly, if he just walked through the front door, tell me you’d get angry with him,” Niall said, pleading slightly, his eyebrows pulling together.

Harry considered it. What would he do if Louis just walked in right now? “I don’t think I would. We did enough yelling for a lifetime. I wouldn’t just move on, though, and he wouldn’t either. We need to talk.” Harry swallowed deeply and ran a hand through his hair. “Like, really talk. Not fight. We have to get better. I think, if he comes back, we will.” Part of that was wishful thinking, but it was all Harry had to cling onto.

“I think you will, too. I have faith that you guys will fix whatever issues you’ve been having the past few months. I don’t know what will happen - to any of us, honestly - if you don’t.” Niall looked worried now, but his eyes were hard. Harry could see in them just how much this hurt him too. “But I’m pissed at him. He shouldn’t have left. He should’ve stayed and fought through it.”

“He tried.” Harry believed that. He looked around the room, his gaze passing swiftly over all of the places and things he had touched and loved with Louis, until settling back on his friend. “I _was_ mad, Niall. But I’ve thought about it a lot, and I might’ve done the same thing.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I could’ve.”

They stared at each other silently for a minute. Harry understood what Niall was getting at; he did have a tendency to give too much to people and let himself be stepped on, but this was _Louis._ They trusted each other. Louis wasn’t trying to walk over him. Harry had wanted out of that hotel room so badly; Louis just got to it first. If he left, it was only because he _needed_ to. If he never came back (Harry shuddered a little at the thought), it would only be because that’s what he needed. And as broken-hearted as that would leave Harry, he had promised Louis years ago that he would do whatever he could to give him what he needed. He wasn’t going to break that promise.

“I just want him to come home,” Harry said, eyes glassy, not even meaning to speak the words out loud.

Niall nodded sadly, and his face was softer now. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Has Liam told you anything?” Harry was afraid to hear the answer.

Niall furrowed his eyebrows, puzzled. “Liam? No.”

“Oh. Well, I guess he’s doing a good job of keeping his mouth shut.” He sniffled shortly, looking down at his lap. “He’s a good friend.”

“What?” Niall asked, confused. “Liam doesn’t know where Louis is.”

Harry’s head shot up at that, surprised. “What? I figured he was the only one who knew any-”

“Louis didn’t tell us anything.” Niall interrupted bitterly. “We only found out he was gone the next day because he had given back his room key, and the receptionist at the front desk told us.”

“Oh, fuck.” Harry had thought that if enough time passed without Louis returning, if even to just move out of the house, he would have Liam to turn to in order to get Louis’s whereabouts. (He didn’t know how long ‘enough time’ would be, but he figured he’d know when he got there.) Now, though, Louis was completely unreachable. He had left his phone in the hotel room - Niall had found it while helping Harry pack up before check-out, and had discreetly shoved it into his own bag. Harry had pretended not to see.

Niall opened his mouth, then closed it again. He sighed and put his hand on Harry’s knee, squeezing gently - not in the ticklish way he does when trying to get Harry riled up or off his ass to do shots or excited and adrenalized for a show, but in the reassuring, consoling way he does when he knows someone needs calm and comfort. With a hurricane in his head and an earthquake all around, Harry needed calm and comfort.

“I think the only thing you can do is wait for him.” Harry nodded, staring down at Niall’s hand on his knee, focusing on the warmth from his palm instead of the tendrils of panic slowly wrapping around his throat again. “I know it’s hard, but don’t seek him out. Don’t pressure him, it’ll just make him run farther.” Harry nodded again, his eyes prickling and pooling with fresh tears. “This is Louis we’re talking about. He’ll come around. You two wait for each other, always. The wait will be worth it.”

\--

It had been twelve days. The longest twelve days of Harry’s life.

It had been so long that the house no longer smelled of the months-old scent of Harry and Louis together, but of only Harry. So long that hearing Louis’s name in his head didn’t make Harry flinch anymore. So long that when he stepped past the fallen pens in front of the fridge, he didn’t even think briefly about picking them up, because that was their place now, lying on the cold tile. So long that he had finally sat down with his notebook and a guitar and started writing - something new and raw, tentatively titled “From the Dining Table _._ ” So long that the will to fight had melted into the need to forgive, and the anger had simmered mostly into worry.

So long that, on the twelfth day at 5:23pm, when the sound of the lock clicking echoed from the front door, Harry jumped up from where he was sitting in the kitchen and snatched a chef’s knife, wielding it in front of him. His first thought was invasive paparazzi, or crazy fans, or a robber, or a murderer. Or maybe Gemma was finally using the key Harry had given her ages ago. _No,_ he chided himself, _that’s absurd._

The door opened and it wasn’t a stalker, or a robber, or a murderer. Harry inhaled sharply and the knife fell from his hand and clattered to the floor, clanging loudly and disturbing the silence.

Dozens of different emotions flooded Harry’s body so suddenly and so strongly that he swayed on his feet and clutched onto the island countertop in order to stay upright. Relief was primary. Relief that Louis was safe and _here_. That he had come back. Behind that, there was a storm. There were the old shriveled ashes of anger, the churning waves of hurt, the rumbling thunder of sadness, the slow-spreading warmth of solace, and the lightning flashes of hope. Then there were the gusts of panic that made him feel like his bones were grinding together, like his insides had dried up. _What if he’s just here to move out? What if this is a break up?_

He stared at his boyfriend silently, mouth open but not daring to let words out for fear that they would blow Louis away through the open door. This was fragile, and Harry decided right then that he would _not_ ruin it. He would not raise his voice. He would not shoot to kill. He would use his words to wrap tenderly around Louis, gently guiding him to where they both wanted to go, instead of shoving him to where Harry wanted him. Right now, though, he stayed quiet, stunned. 

He didn’t quite know what to say, but Louis was _here_ in the doorway.

Louis was silent, too. His mouth was a straight line and his eyes were hard as he dropped his duffel on the ground and closed the door. He took a few steps forward, but stayed at the edge of the kitchen, leaving a few meters between them. Harry stared deep into his eyes, trying to decipher his thoughts and feelings in the icy blue that swam there. He couldn’t find any anger, only exhaustion, weariness, nervousness, hurt, and what looked like relief seeping in from the edges of his irises, his pupils dilating.

That tinge of comfort, of hope, of a warmer blue, bloomed and oozed out of him. It spread slow across the kitchen floor until it reached Harry’s socked feet, warming them and climbing up his legs, seeping through his stomach, all the way to his chest until it was almost overwhelming. 

It cracked every illusion of solid defense that Harry had built since that night in the hotel room, and he felt his knees go weak and now his insides were no longer dry, but way too wet. 

“Louis,” he breathed, almost whimpering. 

Louis dashed forward and threw himself at him, nearly knocking him over again. Harry stumbled backwards, his heel hitting the handle of the knife, which spun away across the tile.

Louis’s arms hung heavy around Harry’s neck and their chests pressed warm against each other. Harry burrowed his face in the crook of his neck, plunging head-on into the scent of him and breathing deeper than he had in almost two weeks. His arms tightened around Louis’s waist, somehow pulling him even closer. He wanted to crawl inside of Louis and live in him forever. Right now, with Louis’s hair tickling his cheek and the sleeves of his sweatshirt warm against his neck, with their faces in each other’s shoulders and their chests pressed snugly together, it felt like he could. 

Harry breathed sharply in through his nose and swallowed the smell, vanilla and mint and cigarettes and a trace of pine. He squeezed tightly with his arms and held strong with his hands. He let the tears flow freely and it felt cathartic and comfortable. It felt like coming home.

He didn’t know how long it had been when Louis unraveled their bodies and stepped backwards.

“We need to talk,” he said. He was just standing there - not in his fighting position, no crossed arms or popped hip or challenging eyebrows. He looked weak and strong at the same time, small and powerful, sad and beautiful, and so, so tired. Harry thought that he himself probably looked the same.

“Yeah, we do.”

“Can we sit down, though? I don’t want-,” Louis cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck and looking longingly at the stools tucked under the island. Harry understood what he meant, so he nodded and pulled out a stool for him. _I don’t want it to be like last time, either._

Louis sat down and Harry sat across from him, the island separating them, the conversation that they probably should have had months before hanging between them. While Harry waited for Louis to start, he rested his hands on the countertop and fiddled with his fingers. He wasn’t wearing rings for once, and he suddenly wished he was.

The man across from him stayed silent, so Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “Just-,” he paused to clear his throat, which was suddenly sticky with tears. “Just tell me right now if you want us to break up.” He tried to ignore the way his voice cracked and the way his fingers felt naked and the way Louis’s eyebrows angled upwards and his eyes softened into one of the saddest expressions Harry had ever seen grace his features.

“No,” he breathed, sounding like the wind had been knocked out of him. “No, H, I really, really don’t want that. Not ever.” A fat tear fell over the cliff of his lower eyelid and Harry had to consciously force himself not to reach out and wipe it off his cheekbone, to comfort and to _touch._ Louis brushed the tear away before it slipped further. “But,” he continued slowly, carefully, “if _you_ want to break up,” his lip wobbled and another tear sprung free, “I understand.” His voice broke and Harry’s heart broke along with it.

“No,” Harry gasped, “no, no, that’s not what I was saying, I never want to lose you,” he rushed out.

That just made Louis shatter even more, sobs clawing their way out of his throat, his shoulders shaking. Despite everything that had happened, all the anger and injury between them, the sight felt like a physical knife in Harry’s stomach. He slid his hands across the table, palms up. He reached out to Louis, and prayed that he would reach back. He did. He rested his smaller hands in Harry’s and they gripped each other tightly, the anchor and rope intertwining for the first time in too long.

“I’m sorry,” Louis choked and babbled frantically. “I’m so, so sorry, Harry, I shouldn’t have left you alone, I should’ve stayed and fixed things, I shouldn’t have said the things I said-”

“Lou, calm down, it’s alright,” Harry tried, rubbing his thumbs over Louis’s knuckles soothingly. Louis pulled his hands away and dropped his head into them, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

“I shouldn’t have left, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I left you, oh, fuck,” he repeated hysterically. His chest was heaving and his neck was reddening and Harry didn’t know what to do. He shot up from his stool and rounded the island, almost slipping on the tiled floor, before wrapping his arms around Louis. He squeezed him and rubbed his back and breathed calming words into his ear and let his own tears drip into his hair, the storm dissipating into a release of rain. And Louis leaned his weight on him and gripped his shirt and shook in his arms and panted sorrys against his chest and it hurt so badly, but they were sharing the hurt. They were together, and Louis was back in Harry’s arms where he belonged, and every tear they cried joined to form a river, and that river carved a path through all the dust and dirt and debris of their relationship. It was cleansing, and it was necessary, and as the river grew deeper, Harry and Louis grew stronger. They could sail that river together - the boat and the compass, the anchor and the rope - and make it out of the mess they had created.

Creativity hits at the most random of times, and it never rests. Not even when the love of your life is breaking down in your arms, and you’re breaking with him. Somewhere in the back of his head, Harry heard triumphant trumpets, and rolling drums, and a steady guitar. _We’ll be alright._

After some time, Harry felt the shakes subside and Louis’s stuttered gasps turned into deep breaths. He lifted his head and pressed a kiss to Harry’s chest before resting his forehead against it, his hands loosening their grip on his t-shirt. Harry’s right hand stayed in his hair, and with his left he held Louis’s hand again, kissing his knuckles and the rope tattoo gently, inhaling deeply.

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“I’m sorry, too, Louis.”

Louis leaned back into a normal sitting position on the stool and looked up at him, blue eyes vivid like the summer sky and thick eyelashes wet like dewy grass. “Don’t say sorry, you didn’t run away,” he said bitterly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just left you there when it got too hard, like a coward.” Harry wiped a stray tear from his cheekbone and then brushed his lips to the spot.

“Louis, listen to me,” Harry said sternly, holding his face in his hands. “You are anything but a coward. You are the bravest person I have ever met. You left, but I could have followed.” Louis started to shake his head, mouth opening, but Harry gently cut him off. “Think of everything we’ve gone through, all the shit we’ve taken, all the ways we’ve ripped each other apart - things have been hard for a long time but we’re both still here, and that’s what matters. That takes courage.” He rubbed his jawline with his thumb and Louis grabbed his wrists. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Louis said. “I can’t imagine stopping.” He sniffled and pierced Harry’s eyes with his own. “Harry, if love is only for the brave, I want to be brave with you forever.”

Those words burrowed deep down in Harry’s chest and shot through his veins, and he nearly gasped, nearly started crying again. “Me too,” he said shakily.

“I think the brave thing for us to do is to talk - like, _really_ talk - about everything,” Louis said, his words slow. “Not yell. I won’t be such a dick. I won’t run away. I’m sorry.”

“I think we need to do that, too, but Louis,” Harry pleaded, “please stop apologizing. We both said some awful things to each other. You’re not the only one at fault here. We already said our sorrys. I’m not mad at you for taking the space you needed.”

“Why?”

Harry sighed. “Because I trust that you wouldn’t have gone unless you really had to. I trust you more than anyone, and if I stop trusting you, then we’ve got nothing.”

“Thank you,” Louis whispered.

“You’ve nothing to thank me for,” Harry reassured. “I was mad for days, but then it just sort of… stopped. I was so worried, though. I just want to know, where were you?” He dropped his hands from Louis’s head, pulled out the other stool, and sat down facing him, both of them on the same side of the island.

“I went to Lottie’s,” Louis said quietly. “The twins were there and everything.”

“Damn Lottie didn’t tell me,” Harry said, trying to laugh a bit.

“I made her promise not to.”

Harry thought about if it had been he who had left. He would’ve begged Gemma not to spill, too.

“How was it?” he asked carefully.

“It didn’t help. I don’t know why I thought it would,” Louis said, a bitter tinge to his words. “It was just so hard to be in that hotel room and to see you breaking, knowing that I caused it. But it was hard at Lottie’s, too.” He sniffled a bit, his eyelashes fluttering. “It’s hard to be anywhere when all I want is you.”

“Lou,” he started sadly, “why didn’t you _call_? At least just to tell me you were okay. I know you didn’t have yours, but the girls have phones.”

Louis dropped his gaze at his hands in his lap, his boney knuckles and delicate fingers. Then he looked up again, and when he made eye contact, it was aching and injured. “I didn’t know if you’d care if I came back.”

“I’ll always care,” Harry replied earnestly, trying to put every ounce of sincerity into the phrase.

Louis reached across the space between them and rested his hands on the sides of Harry’s neck, bringing him closer. They rested their foreheads together, just pressing and touching for the first time in way too long and Harry savored the feeling of the light brush. He wanted to kiss him. It had been the longest his lips had gone without the taste of Louis since he had been kissed by him for the first time at age sixteen. His first thought was to try to convey all the things he wanted to say to Louis through their physical connection, but he threw that idea away. If they kissed, they would get distracted. The only way for them to grow would be to talk.

Louis pulled back, pushed Harry’s hair off of his forehead, and left a tender kiss there. They shared eye contact, relief and apprehension and exhaustion and love passing between them, and they both knew what needed to happen.

“Let me make tea first,” Louis sighed, rubbing a hand down his face and standing up, squeezing Harry’s shoulder as he passed.

Five minutes later, with mugs of steaming comfort in hand (Harry’s made just how he liked it by the hands that prepare it best), Louis sat back down and they took a deep inhalation together.

“I got too defensive that night,” Louis started. “Like I always do. But I don’t want to fight, and I don’t want to armor myself anymore. I’m too tired to be tough. All I want is to be loved by you.”

“I’ve never stopped loving you,” Harry insisted.

“Me neither,” Louis responded, reaching out and brushing Harry’s knee with his fingers, “but I stopped loving _us._ Things have changed, a _lot_ , and I think a big reason for our issues is that we tried to ignore the changes rather than embracing them and dealing with them.”

“I also think,” Harry begun, his words slow and sinking between them, “we haven’t talked so much, like, generally, about our… situation in a while.” He shook his head, trying to find the right words to say to expel the weight in his chest. “Like, when a new stunt starts,” they both flinched a little, just on instinct, “we talk about it. But we don’t really talk about the closeting in general. I think part of that is self-preservation, like, we’ve learned that it’s best not to dwell on it too much if we can avoid it.” Louis nodded. “And I think it’s good that we are even able to sort of set it to the side, even though it’s like a constant weight on us, but I also think we need to be able to talk about it without tearing each other down.”

“You’re right. We’re in this together. Sometimes we forget that,” Louis responded, taking a sip of tea. Harry blew gently on his then took a sip too, letting it warm his insides all the way down to his toes.

He took a long, slow breath. “I think that’s why I sort of… freaked out when you said you were staying with Syco.” Louis’s hand stuttered in its movements on Harry’s knee, then it moved to Harry’s fingers, grasping them. “Because even though this whole damn industry is awful in a lot of ways, I’ve always thought of Syco as the main bad guys. For us, at least.”

“They are the bad guys,” Louis sighed. “I fucking hate it. But I want to do what’s best for my career. Even if that means not being able to… be free.” He frowned. “If that’s okay with you.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t on board before,” Harry replied softly. “Whatever you want is okay. It’s just sad. I want the best for you.” Louis squeezed his fingers. “Only the best. I hate seeing you trapped.”

“You’re trapped, too.” Despite the miserable truth of the words, they made Harry’s heart feel a little lighter. “I can’t believe I tried to insinuate that you weren’t. I just got so mad, about everything, obviously, but in the moment all I could hear was you not supporting me.” Harry started to shake his head, but Louis squeezed his hand again. “I know you support me. I just-,” he stared deeply into his mug like he was trying to find answers in the tea. “Is this because you wanna come out?” he asked, looking back up.

“Baby, no,” Harry breathed, stroking the pad of his thumb over Louis’s fingernails. “This is about you, not us. Your strength as a musician and the unfair position they’ve put you in. I mean, of course I want to come out, and I know you do too, but honestly, I don’t know if we’d even be able to any time soon, no matter what record label we’re under. And I know you probably think I was only mad because we had plans to transfer together-”

“I don’t.”

“Okay, well,” Harry cleared his throat a bit, “that’s good. Because that’s not it. I just want to see you soar. And I want to be here to cheer you on and soar with you.”

“Thank you, babe, I want the same,” Louis said earnestly. He pressed a quick kiss to Harry’s fingertips, his lips warm from the tea. “I’ve just… I’ve been having a hard time adjusting. I feel like, even though there was always a lot of stress in the band and all, everything used to run so smoothly. Like, this job was like a machine, and we and the boys had such shiny wheels, and now they’re rusting.”

“We need a break. Anyone would need a break after this. We’ve been running nonstop for five years,” Harry said, trying to keep the frustration at bay. The anger, now, was just aimed at their handlers and the contract they signed five years ago, but he didn’t want any heat infiltrating this conversation. 

“I think I’m gonna get a therapist,” Louis said quietly. “Because I have a lot of fears and issues with… the future, and, like, what I’m gonna do and how it’s all gonna work. I feel like I’m on edge all the time, and I keep lashing out, and I- I’m afraid I’m gonna really hurt someone. More than I already have. And I think it would be good for me to talk about that with an outsider, you know?”

“That’s amazing,” Harry replied, letting out a deep breath that he didn’t even know he had been holding and feeling hope take its place in his chest. “I think that’ll be great, baby. This is terrifying for both of us, even if it’s scary in different ways. But even though there’s fear, I think we can make room for relief. We’ll work on ourselves and we’ll work on each other, and we’ll be alright. We’ve been overworked, and I think it’ll be good to start doing things on our own terms.”

“And we’ll be here. By each other’s sides the whole time, yeah?” Louis reassured, his voice sounding airy.

“Always.” And he meant it. He felt so much love pulsing through him that sometimes it was hard to handle. If he hadn’t gotten used to it by feeling it every day for the past five years, he would have been scared of it. But this love was a part of him now, like an extra limb or just another trait of his personality, connecting him to Louis and to earth. Some of the most critical years of their development had seen them struggling to deal with a complete loss of autonomy. At age sixteen and eighteen, they were thrown into the ruthless blender of the music industry, stretched out on a table and illuminated by blinding spotlights and pried open, examined, altered like scientific experiments, for the sake of money and the selling of sex and the tricking of the public. And, out there on the surgical slab, with no control over the procedure, Louis and Harry were each other’s painkillers. Louis was like morphine to young, doe-eyed Harry, and no matter how vehemently they were pushed apart and slandered and dehumanized, Harry’s constant mantra was _Give me some more. More, more, more. Take the pain away._ And Louis did. This love pulsing in him since the X Factor, the fire in his veins, was his savior and sometimes the only thing holding him down to earth when the spin got too bad and the machine got too mean. He knew Louis felt it too, and he knew that sometimes it frightened them both. Isn’t it dangerous to be so inextricably connected, so dependent, on another person? 

“I got so scared, Lou,” Harry started after the moment of silence, his throat a little clogged. “I’ve been so terrified that our problems aren't fixable, that maybe the sheer amount of love we have for each other wouldn’t be enough to hold us together. That maybe we’ve had a great run but it’s the end now because we pushed each other too hard. We’ve always been pulled in opposite directions and stretched out, and we’ve always bounced right back to each other the second the grip is loosened, but for months I’ve been feeling like we’re about to snap.”

“I know the feeling,” Louis says sadly, meeting Harry’s eyes with a hint of shame. “You’re not alone. We’ve both been feeling this way. And I think we’ve been pushing each other, like we’re trying to compensate for the pulling, because that’s the thing we can’t control. But Haz, we _are_ in control in a lot of ways. We’re in our own little bubble, and they can fuck us over as many times as they want, but they can’t burst it. We’ve grown up together, and we’ve built this protection around us together. Me and you is all we’ve ever known, and it’s all I ever want to know.”

Harry felt like crying again. His throat hurt from holding back the tears, and his eyes were burning, but he pushed the feeling away. _Stay strong stay strong stay strong._ Louis could read his thoughts, though, like he always could. He reached across and rested a hand on Harry’s cheek, thumbing the skin next to his nose and reminding him silently, like he always did, that crying doesn’t mean weakness. So Harry let the tears fall, yet again, and Louis’s fingers were right there to catch them.

“I didn’t want to lose you, but it felt like I was, and I knew you felt the same way, and for some reason that scared me more,” Harry said wetly. “Like, the thought was already in your head, and if I brought it up, that would just be the last push you needed to cut ties completely. I didn’t realize that I was drifting away too.”

“We should have talked,” Louis said, dropping his hand to Harry’s knee and loosely tangling their fingers there again. “Love isn’t the ultimate healer, and sex certainly isn’t either. We both did this to each other, and we were both floating away; I was just the first to run.”

“I pushed you away, Lou. It felt like I was testing how hard I could shove you until the bond between us broke. Obviously, that’s not what I was trying to do, but in hindsight that’s what it felt like.” He squeezed Louis’s hand lightly and danced his fingers over his slender wrist, thumbing over the protrusion of his bone and tracing the rope and nudging the quotation marks. Beautiful, again and again and again. “Like I was mad at you for drifting, and mad at myself for drifting too, so I was, like, challenging us to break and daring you to be the first to leave. I have a lot of regrets about that. I’m sorry.”

“I did it too.” Louis shook his head quickly, dropping his gaze to the floor like he was trying to throw some of his thoughts away. “Communication goes two ways and we both fucked it up.” He shifted his eyes to where Harry was now tracing random shapes on the soft skin of Louis’s inner wrist, lightly like the brush of a leaf or the caress of breeze. Serenely, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. The touch brought Louis back to where he needed to be and he met Harry’s eyes again. “We do a lot of telling each other what to do, and not enough asking each other what we want.”

“Definitely,” Harry said, his voice stronger now, like his touches on Louis’s wrist were healing him too. “We need to work on that. And, honestly, this is already a step in that direction. Like,” he gestured between them with his mug, “talking about this.”

Louis nodded. “I don’t want this to be a big deal anymore. We can’t wait until we reach a boiling point to talk. I don’t ever want to reach that point again.”

“We’re not tea,” Harry said, his lips tentatively turning up at the edges.

“True, Harold,” Louis said lightly, looking like he had surprised himself when a small laugh spilled from his lips. His eyes crinkled a little and Harry’s smile turned a little goofy and suddenly it was spring between them. They had seen gradual autumn - they’d been falling for months, like leaves browning and drying up and breaking from the branches. They had seen blazing summer - in every fight they had, in every brutal glare, in every angry orgasm and every boiling drop of sweat. They had seen bitter winter - in the past twelve days, and in those countless times when the fight from the night before hadn’t healed, and they couldn’t pretend that it did, but it wasn’t so hot anymore, instead frigid and icy and sharp and making everyone around them shiver. But this was tentative spring. It wasn’t a new beginning, because Louis had been a part of Harry and vice versa for five years, but it was a fresh page. New buds were blooming, and the ice was melting, and the birds were free and chirping after the cold season, and the sun peaked out a little more with every passing second that Louis had a slight smile on his face.

There was no way Louis didn’t feel it, too, that any remaining ice between them had cracked and melted away, and all that was left was damp grass and fresh soil to cultivate together, new roses to grow and Louis’s dagger always there to cut the dangerous thorns.

“I agree that we should start making more of an effort to say everything we feel, honestly and fully,” Harry said, his voice and eyes growing brighter. His hand had stilled on Louis’s wrist, and he moved it down to lace their fingers together.

Louis nodded. “We need to try,” he agreed.

Harry stared down at their hands, laced together and resting on his knee. At the anchor and the rope, the quotation marks and _I can’t change_ , covered up but still there, the closest thing to inside him as they could get without breaking the skin. He physically felt the weight of every word spoken between Louis and him, from Sheffield to London, the bad and the good. The weight of the bad ones had finally lifted, and his chest was suddenly lighter than it had been in months. The good ones stayed with him, and they were a comforting weight, taking up home inside him, in between his ribs and in his stomach, dancing with the tea and warming him. Deeper inside, wrapped tightly around his heart, flickering and pulsing with every beat, he felt every conversation and every moment they had ever shared: from Manchester to LA to Buenos Aires to Paris to Rome, and everywhere in between. They had traveled the world together, graced every city with their words and their music and their love, yet nothing seemed as monumental as this - face to face at the kitchen table, hand in hand, at their house in London and at home with each other, reconciliation and relief and hope dancing between them.

“[ This ](https://open.spotify.com/track/7kt9e9LFSpN1zQtYEl19o1?si=gTG5Ish6S7mUTrgoGPmtvw) is me trying,” Harry said pleadingly, honestly. He lifted his gaze back to the beautiful man in front of him, and both of their eyes were clear and sparkling. “I’m trying.”

“I am, too,” Louis promised.

“At least we’re trying.”

Something sparked between them, and the flames were good this time, springing forth, lively and optimistic, reminiscent of the old blaze but newer, fresher, healthier. They both set their mugs down on the counter at the same time, their second hands now free to link together. They leaned closer, eyes bright and feeling younger than they had in a long time.

“We won’t be perfect-,” Harry said.

“Probably ever-,” Louis continued.

“But,” Harry grinned, his dimples fully seeing the light of day for the first time since Sheffield, “baby, we could be enough.” He leaned just the last bit closer, eyes fluttering closed and lips pursed. 

Louis pulled away. 

Harry’s eyes flew open. Panic coursed through him again, tearing through his veins and searing his skin- _did I push it too far?_ _Are we not there yet?_

The feeling dissipated as his vision focused on Louis, a gorgeous sight with his feathery hair and bright blue eyes crinkling so much they were nearly shut, laughter falling from his lips and lighting up the air. “Haz,” he teased, “did you just quote lyrics that _I_ wrote, directly to me?”

“Yes,” Harry blushed and swallowed, “because you’re the best songwriter I’ve ever heard and I love you heaps and-”

“Oh, shut up,” Louis said with an eye roll, a fond smile on his lips as he closed the distance between them and finally, _finally_ kissed Harry.

They both stood up quickly, Harry knocking his stool over in his haste and Louis’s hands immediately going to his hair, tangling his fingers in the long waves and pulling him in closer. Harry’s arms circled around Louis’s torso, pressing their chests flush and eliminating any remaining space between them.

“I missed you, Lou,” Harry breathed against Louis’s mouth, relishing the taste of him and the feeling of his lips, his tongue, his hands.

“I missed you, too, H,” Louis whispered back, stroking his fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp.

Harry disconnected their lips in favor of burying his face in Louis’s neck, kissing wetly and biting lightly and breathing deeply. Louis’s hands snaked down to the back of his thighs, and suddenly he hoisted Harry up, setting him down on their island and stepping between his legs, a familiar position that still somehow felt new. Their hands roamed hungrily, brushing across torsos and running through hair and stroking over skin, and still it felt like Harry couldn’t get enough. With Louis’s fingers squeezing his thighs and his own hands sneaking under Louis’s shirt to feel the warmth and smoothness of his back and their tongues sliding together, with Louis panting into his mouth, Harry wanted more. He _needed_ more.

“I-,” Harry gasped as Louis’s mouth traveled down to his throat, nipping lightly and exhaling heat that spread under the neck of Harry’s shirt and all the way down his torso before settling in his lower stomach, “I need-”

Louis pulled away and looked him in the eyes, pupils blown and contrasting with the beautiful blue, hair mussed, lips dark. “What do you need, baby?” he panted, finding one of Harry’s hands on his back and bringing it to his face, brushing his lips over the knuckles and thumbing over the bone of his wrist.

“I need you,” Harry answered honestly, voice gruff and pleading. “Always.” He could see Louis’s eyes turning glassy again, and he could feel his own doing the same, so he leaned down and pressed their foreheads together, bringing his hands to Louis’s cheeks and keeping his eyes open. “And right now,” he whispered.

And Louis’s mouth was back on his, and he was pulling Harry off the counter and holding him close. Harry wrapped his legs around him and let himself be held. As Louis carried him through the house, Harry realized that it felt like home again. The hallways weren’t so dark, the walls weren’t so bland, the space wasn’t so frightening, and the smell was overwhelmingly comforting. As Louis kicked their bedroom door open and laid him carefully down, the bed wasn’t so lonely anymore, the sheets weren’t so cold.

When they undressed each other, it was with urgency but no rush, tattooing kisses and fingerprints on every inch of newly exposed skin. When Louis spread him open, Harry whispered ‘I love you’ with every finger he added, and Louis whispered it back, breathing the words into his hipbones and his bellybutton and the soft skin between his thighs. When Louis pushed in slowly, it ached in the best way and Harry felt the fullest he had in months. Full of love and affection and warmth and _Louis._ He let the inferno lick at him and he basked in its warmth, no longer afraid of the flames, for they were there to carry him and kiss him.

It wasn’t calm, it wasn’t chaste, and maybe it should have been, but at the end of the day this was Harry and Louis. This was all the passion and all the hurt and all the love all at once, this was so much emotion it almost hurt and so much relief it almost didn’t feel real. This wasn’t fucking after a fight, hot and aggressive and competitive; this was rediscovering a love that they had almost lost, feeling emotions that they had stifled for months, knocking their defenses down and letting themselves be taken over by comfort and ecstasy. This was like listening to a song that used to be your favorite, before you forgot about it because you got old and caught up in the whirlwind of life, but then you slow down and take a step back and find that song again, and you remember how you cherished it, how it changed you, how it saved you. This was the two of them pouring their hearts out. They fell from the edge of a cliff and followed their fears all the way down, and they reached the bottom together, arms open and hearts willing.

This was reconciliation, forgiveness, trust, and bravery. This was them trying. And, no matter what had happened in the blurry past or what would come in the uncertain future, they knew they would succeed. They would brave the winding roads and unforgiving seas together, they would lift each other up and never tear each other down, and they would fight their monsters hand in hand.

When Harry whimpered with pleasure it was like the peak of spring, like those days when the air is rose gold with tinges of yellow, and the world is bursting with thriving life and welcoming breeze, and it feels like nothing dark could possibly survive. When Louis moaned in response it was like the sunset after those days, when the night is balmy and cool, and your heart is pulsing with youth and freedom and adventure, and you know that, at least for tonight, the moon and stars are there for you. It was dark out now, and when Louis brushed the hair out of Harry’s eyes, sighing beautifully and panting sweet words into his ear, pale light shone through the window and Harry knew that, at least for tonight, the moon and stars were there for them. They painted Louis’s shoulder blades and Harry’s fingers in silver, and the room buzzed with phosphorescence, glimmering with silver from the lights in the sky and gold from the fire on the bed.

When they came, they came together. Their orgasms ripped through them with shocking force, hands clinging with need, voices harmonizing with pleasure, toes curling with ecstasy, chests heaving like their hearts were trying to break free. Every inch of Harry’s body, inside and out, was sparkling, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Both of them were floating, eyes glowing and skin burning as Louis collapsed on top of Harry and kissed the sparrows on his chest.

He rolled off of Harry, cuddling into his side, and Harry carded his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, gentle and slow, relaxing in the afterglow and basking in the love he felt from the man curled up against his side. Louis drew light, tickling patterns on his waist, and Harry opened his mouth and sang softly, his fingers never stopping. He sang [ a song ](https://open.spotify.com/track/3h9T2wLTy4FEKulLDkUjlX?si=dBXgOgpnQ9K4lb0HJCRFcg) they both knew well, having danced and cried and fallen asleep to it before, and Louis listened quietly as his voice brushed low, soft, and sweet over his skin and into the air, out of the open window and into the night.

_I haven’t felt this way I feel_

_Since many a year ago._

_But in those years and the lifetimes past,_

_I did not deal with the road._

_And I did not deal with you, I know,_

_Though the love has always been._

_So I search to find an answer there_

_So I can truly win._

Harry heard Louis’s quick intake of breath, sensed it tickle his skin, and he turned onto his side to face him. His palm rested on Louis’s face, his fingers still in his hair, and without breaking eye contact, he continued the song almost breathlessly.

_Every hour of fear I spend,_

_My body tries to cry._

_Living through each empty night,_

_A deadly calm inside._

_So I try to say goodbye, my friend,_

_I’d like to leave you with something warm._

Louis’s fingers ghosted over his ribs and Harry felt them like the brushing wings of a bird, and he felt lighter and freer than he had in years. New doors were opening all around them, new windows for light to enter through, and new paths to venture together. Louis joined in for the next lines, his raspier, higher voice angelically complementing Harry’s deeper tones as they shared space and breaths and touches, and sang together.

_Never have I been a blue, calm sea,_

_I have always been a storm._

\--

Hours later, when both of their stomachs were rumbling too loudly to ignore, they crawled out of bed and, dressed in boxers and baggy hoodies, made their way back to the kitchen. Louis brought his duffle bag, which was still lying by the front door, to their bedroom while Harry cooked them breakfast for dinner with the limited ingredients they had in the house.

When Louis came back in, ruffling his hair, his eyes still bright and the stain of a smile upturning the corners of his lips, he stopped abruptly in front of the fridge. 

“Haz?” he called.

“Hm?” Harry hummed from where he was stationed by the stove.

“Why are these on the floor?”

Harry turned his attention over to where Louis was staring down at the floor quizzically, his brow furrowed. Puzzled, Harry left the eggs sizzling in the pan and, upon rounding the island, found the source of Louis’s confusion.

“Oh, uh-,” Harry began slowly, eyebrows pulling together and mouth turning down in a frown.

“It’s alright,” Louis said, and crouched to pick up the pens in front of the fridge. Harry watched, spatula in hand, as Louis put all the pens neatly back in the magnetic basket and straightened the dog magnet. Oddly, it felt like the last lingering weight in his bones had lifted, a weight he had forgotten was even there over the past days of solitude, and his face relaxed into a small smile.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Louis seemed amusedly confused, but he didn’t ask any questions and Harry thought that maybe he understood. “No problem,” he replied, fondness etched into the crinkles by his eyes and the edges of his smile.

They sat at the island with their food and fresh mugs of tea, and Louis kept a hand resting on Harry’s thigh while they ate.

“I can’t believe this is ending.” Louis looked down at where they were touching.

“It’s not ending,” Harry insisted. “It’s a _hiatus._ ”

“We both know what that means,” Louis replied sadly. “I just can’t believe it’s been five years. It feels like the X Factor was yesterday, but at the same time it feels like it’s been a decade.”

“Sometimes I see the fans post young pictures of us online and it always shocks me.” Harry laughed. “You were so cute.”

“You were cuter. You were all curly and little. And you were _obsessed_ with me,” Louis teased.

“Still am,” Harry mumbled around a mouthful of egg. Louis brushed his hair out of his face.

“I never want to forget what it was like to be that young.” A note of sadness laced his voice.

“Me neither,” Harry agreed.

“Especially now that a lot of things are… changing.” Louis’s face lit up in a wide grin. “Let’s go on a vacation.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know, you choose.” Louis took a sip of tea and squeezed Harry’s thigh. “Somewhere fun.”

Harry considered. _Somewhere fun._ Somewhere they could visit together, now that the hiatus - and whatever it would transform into - was starting, to just be themselves, together, and remember how to be young. An idea came to him and a smile spread slowly over his face like the early morning sun breaking over the horizon, warming his eyes and dimpling his cheeks.

“Jamaica.”  
  


\- the end - 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave kudos if you liked it!! And comment your thoughts! My twitter is @g0ldenfences if you want to find me there :)
> 
> Songs that loosely inspired this (I highly recommend that you listen to the first two after reading):  
> \- "this is me trying" by Taylor Swift  
> \- "Storms" by Fleetwood Mac  
> \- a song that I wrote in 7th grade haha  
> \- "Defenceless", "Fearless", and "Too Young" by Louis Tomlinson  
> \- "Two Ghosts", "Meet Me in the Hallway", and "From the Dining Table" by Harry Styles  
> \- "Home" by One Direction


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